


Stay

by through_shadows_falling



Series: MCU Ficlets [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Farmhouse of Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/through_shadows_falling/pseuds/through_shadows_falling
Summary: Bucky's to-do list was small, but considering his positive start, he could see himself spending the entire day on the item, ‘Decorate.’The only problem was—where was Steve?





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stevergrsno (noxlunate)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxlunate/gifts).



> This fic was written for my Cap Secret Santa recipient [stevergrsno](http://stevergrsno.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> I hope you like it! ^.^ I really enjoyed writing it—I've got such a soft spot for soft Bucky, post Winter Soldier <3

He had no dreams last night. It was, frankly, a miracle.

Bucky shifted in bed, luxuriating in the soft white sheets. He peeked open an eye and confirmed that Steve’s spot was empty, then stretched out the rest of his body with a happy sigh. Outside the window the world was hushed yet bright, and when he finally stood up and drew back the blinds, a fresh blanket of snow greeted him.

Times like these, Bucky wondered that he was still alive. Marveled that he could stand here in pure contentment, gazing out at a peaceful patch of land far from civilization. He was a hundred years old with horrors in his head, but he was content. That was all thanks to Steve.

Steve, who’d broken through his programming, and gotten him help from the Avengers who provided magic and medicine and good old-fashioned therapy. They’d even offered this farmhouse—once a safehouse, but now Bucky and Steve’s home.

Bucky padded to the kitchen, and his bare toes curled at the chilliness of the floor. His winter soldier senses told him he was alone, and indeed he found a note from Steve on the counter, complete with a silly doodle.

_Gone to do some errands. Go ahead and get started without me. -Steve_

As if Steve needed to sign his name. As if he owed Bucky information about his comings and goings.

Bucky had tried to tell him months ago that Steve didn’t need to stay, that he could do whatever he wanted—even go back to fighting the good fight now that Bucky was on the mend. He didn’t need to linger and help Bucky fix up the house, or plant a garden, or buy new furniture.

Yet Steve said he didn’t mind. He smiled, shrugged, and hung around. He learned to install skylights and crafted himself a studio on the second floor. When they sat under the stars one night and Bucky mentioned adding a wraparound porch, Steve drew up the specs the very next day. 

Bucky knew this wouldn’t last. Steve Rogers didn’t possess a quiet bone in his whole body. He didn’t know how to sit still, and when he inevitably ran out of projects, he’d be done.

Which was fine, because Bucky was doing well on his own. This life was greater than anything he could have anticipated, especially since he’d thought more than once that it would be better for everyone if he was put in the ground. That he got to live out his retirement on his own terms, away from death and bloodshed and pain, was all he could’ve hoped for.

And far more than he deserved.

A purring chirp and pressure on his calf had Bucky bending down to scratch his tabby cat Charlie’s head. She meowed and twined between his legs, rubbing her chin on every surface available. 

“You hungry, sweet girl?” Bucky asked. Charlie chirped again, and hopped up onto the counter. “Well, it’s not time to eat yet so you better just wait.” Bucky leaned on his elbows, and Charlie came over to brush by his cheeks, leaving her butt in his face.

“Come on, girl. Don’t be like that. You’ll get fed, I promise.”

A yowling echoed out, and a white cat with orange spots jumped onto the counter. He immediately shoved Charlie away in order to get Bucky’s attention.

“Oliver, stop being pushy.” But Bucky still pet him, making Oliver arch his back and swish his tail. Both cats returned to the floor once they seemingly realized begging would get them nowhere.

Bucky yawned and rubbed his eyes. There was still coffee in the pot, though it’d gone cold. Bucky didn’t bother to make more, and instead put on a kettle to boil water for tea.

As it heated up, he pondered his to-do list. Some days, that list was the only thing that kept him sane and grounded in the moment rather than lost in the past. On his worst days, when he had trouble recalling how to function like a human being, he wrote down even the simplest tasks—wake up, go to the bathroom, shower, shave.

Today his list was small, but only because the tasks he’d set himself could take a long time or little, depending on his mood. Considering his positive start, he could see himself spending the entire day on the item, _‘Decorate.’_

Just last week, he and Steve had driven to the nearest store and stocked up on holiday supplies. Bucky still couldn’t believe how many options he had, but he liked to think he’d picked the most beautiful and practical ones. Namely, white Christmas lights, candles, a fake Christmas tree and all the fixings, and ingredients to bake cookies.

Now what to do first?

Bucky made tea and stood nursing his mug, both flesh and metal hands warm from the heat. He breathed in the steam and strategized.

First, he’d put on Christmas music. He couldn’t do _anything_ before holiday music echoed through the house.

Then, he’d set the candles around and light them. They were white and scent-less but pretty, and he imagined the romantic scene of leaving them lit while he turned off all the other lights.

Then, in the flickering aura of candles and the glow from outside, he’d start to decorate the tree, leaving the ornaments for him and Steve to do together once he came back. In the meantime, Bucky would bake cookies, and hopefully the timing would work where Steve walked in the front door breathing the delicious scent of fresh gingersnaps.

Perfect.

Bucky set down his mug. Mission: Christmas activated.

The first two tasks went off without a hitch. The music playlist had him swaying his hips in no time, and he’d placed the candles away from the reach of the cats, whose wide eyes reflected the dancing flames.

Bucky faced the Christmas tree box they’d leaned against the corner wall. Although people cut down their own trees, neither he nor Steve wanted to face the cold while wandering the property in search of _the_ perfect pine, so they’d opted for plastic. Plus, it was safer for the cats.

Speaking of, Charlie and Oliver loved the box once Bucky opened it and stacked all the tree parts in their designated piles. As the cats goofed around, Bucky read the instructions and built the tree from the bottom up, following the color-coding. Then it was a matter of shooing the cats away from climbing the new tree in their living room.

Bucky laid the garland next, cursing just how much it shed on the floor. It was hard to do alone, but he managed to make it look nice enough. He strung the lights after, and once they were on, he sat to admire the tree. It appeared slightly lopsided, and he hurried to fluff it up in places so there weren’t weird gaps.

He collapsed onto the couch, and Charlie jumped onto his lap and purred as he stroked her.

“I wonder where Steve is,” Bucky said to her. He glanced at the clock. It’d been over an hour. Steve’s errands didn’t usually take this long.

But he wouldn’t worry. Steve would be back soon.

Unless, of course, Steve found a new mission or was called away to fight. _That_ Bucky could believe. Steve had been languishing for months—the punk was probably itching to put no-gooders in their place.

Bucky smiled, a small wry thing that left a sour taste in his mouth.

No matter. Steve would call to let him know. Bucky could rely on him for that.

After Charlie jumped off, he shoved to his feet and headed to the kitchen where Oliver reappeared to yowl at him again for food.

“Still not time yet,” Bucky said, as Oliver flopped right in the middle of the floor. Bucky had to step over him to get the cookie ingredients, chuckling as Oliver started to claw at him before abruptly dashing off. Alone, Bucky spread out each baking ingredient on the countertop and double-checked the recipe.

Despite the holiday cheer now infusing the house, a pit began to open in Bucky’s stomach, full of anxiety, fear, self-pity, and anger. The recipe blurred on the page as thoughts of Steve’s whereabouts consumed him.

Had he really left? Was he coming back? Bucky’s gut squeezed.

No. Bucky had no right to be upset if Steve chose to leave. He’d been expecting it, in fact, just not this soon.

Bucky shook his head to clear his overreaction. “You’re panicking for no reason,” he said aloud to himself, blowing out a breath as he gripped the edge of the counter. “It’s not even been two hours. Sheesh. Talk about abandonment issues.”

His pep talk did little to help, as Bucky began to bake and cracked the eggs a little too hard, forcing him to dig out eggshells from the mixing bowl. Then he stirred the batter a little too vigorously, which ended in a thin coating of flour on the counter and floor.

Bucky was just pausing to sweep up his mess, unable to continue without a clean surface, when the front door opened and Steve stepped through.

The relief that coursed through Bucky made him grin so wide it hurt.

“Hey,” Bucky said, noting with joy that the tips of Steve’s nose were red from the cold, and that flakes of snow dusted his beard. He was also wearing the scarf Bucky had knit for him—a terrible first attempt, which Bucky wanted to burn, but Steve insisted on keeping. The stitches were inconsistent, and the color a garish pink, but Steve apparently loved it anyways, claiming that ‘the yarn was soft and warm.’

Bucky fought the urge to reel Steve in as Steve approached the kitchen, raising an eyebrow at the spilled flour, then beaming at the other decorations.

“Wow. This place looks amazing,” he said.

“I was worried I was going to have to do the ornaments all by myself.” Bucky’s attempted teasing tone fell flat.

Steve winced, sheepish. “Aw, sorry, Buck. Didn’t mean to make you worry. Things went...a little longer than planned.” He pressed his lips together as if holding back a smile. “But I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Bucky rocked back on his heels, expecting to be confronted with Avengers news or the end of the world or something, not a surprise that made Steve rub his hands together like an excited cartoon.

“So, okay, I probably went overboard,” Steve continued, “but I was thinking—”

“Always dangerous coming from you—”

“—ha ha, but hear me out.” Steve gestured wide. “We’ve got a barn, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “...uh huh.”

“But it’s empty! So when it warms up a bit, we can fix it, and...well, I went to an auction and bought a bunch of cows and goats and chickens for the spring. This place could be a working farm again.”

Bucky blinked at him. “Wait, you bought us _farm animals_?”

Steve nodded, eager. “I wasn’t sure about sheep, but just think Buck—we can milk the cows and goats, make our own cheese, and get fresh eggs from the chickens. It’ll be great!”

“We’re from Brooklyn!” Bucky burst out. “We don’t know the first thing about taking care of those kinds of animals.”

“So? We’ve got the internet. We can read. We’ve got helpful neighbors.” Steve’s excitement deflated. “Too much?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “Too much? Of course it is, are you kidding me?” The pit widened in his stomach, and he spoke before he could stop himself. “How the heck am I supposed to take care of so many animals by myself?”

They both froze at Bucky’s words.

Steve’s mouth opened, but nothing emerged until he swallowed a few times. Finally he asked in a soft voice, “What do you mean, by yourself?”

Bucky couldn’t look at him, and instead swept up the rest of the flour. With a bang, he emptied the full dustpan into the trash. “Let’s not kid ourselves. You’re you. I get that. I’ll go along with whatever you want to do.”

Steve gently pried the dustpan from Bucky’s metal hand, which he’d been clenching so hard the tray was now dented. “What are you talking about?”

A lump formed in Bucky’s throat, but he spoke around it, his voice haggard. “There’s gonna be a fight somewhere, and you’re gonna go. It’s fine. Like I said, I get it.”

“I’m not going to fight anymore,” Steve said.

Bucky met his gaze, furious. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’ve never given up a fight in your entire life. What makes you think you’re gonna start now?”

“Because we’ve been here for a months, and I don’t want to go back!” Steve unraveled the scarf around his neck and stalked over to hang up his coat on the rack. He whirled around. “I want this life with you. I’m _happy_ here. Is that so hard to believe?”

Bucky stepped back. “I...I’m just saying—”

“No.” Steve got into Bucky’s space and grabbed his hands. Bucky cringed at the coldness of Steve’s fingers, but Steve held on, not letting him go. “I’m not leaving. I’m not fighting. That’s someone else’s job now, I promise. _This_ is what I want.” Steve raised Bucky’s hands to his lips and kissed the top of each one, reverent, his gaze locked on Bucky’s face.

Bucky’s heart swelled and warmth flooded him, enough to make the pit shrivel. “Your beard tickles.”

Steve, the little shit, pointedly rubbed his beard over Bucky’s flesh hand again.

Bucky giggled and tried to tug away. “Hey, stop!”

“Not until you hear me.”

“I hear you! I hear you, sheesh. I’m getting beard burn! Uncle!”

Steve released him with a laugh, but his face quickly grew serious. “I mean it, you know.”

Bucky sighed. “Yeah, I know.” His lips pulled into a smile. “Well come on, farm boy. Help me whip up some cookies.”


End file.
